Also Known as Elvis (17 page)

“You're
not
a stinky old brother!” Jessie cries. “You're the best daddy ever!”

“What're you talkin' about? I'm not your daddy. I'm your big brother and you're going to be better off without me.”

“Am not!” Jessie goes as Megan throws one of her pillows at me and says, barely above a whisper, “I hate you.”

That's when I hear the horn honking and my mom knocking at the door, saying, “Skeezie, your dad's here.”

• • •

My dad grabs the bags I've left piled at the front door. “I've got a surprise for you in the truck,” he tells me.

I knew it. He got me the guitar. I want to tell him great. I want to be happy. But it's like the extra forty bucks in my paycheck, and the moose slippers, and the pancake mix and maple syrup, and the Elvis watch . . . none of them can take away the empty feeling I have inside. All these nice things people are giving me, they just make the empty place feel emptier. There's nothing that can change that. Not the Yamaha. Not even a Fender Strat.

I bend down to hug Jessie one more time, stand up to hug my mom. Megan is still in her bedroom, hiding out the way I did a couple of years ago in that crawl space under the house. I still haven't asked my dad the Big Question. I will, once we're on our way. But first I've got to go back into the house.

“I'll be right there,” I tell my dad.

“Okay, but hurry up, 'cause you're going to like the surprise.”

I find Megan still huddled on her bed with Big Bird.

I lean down and kiss the top of her head.

“I don't hate you,” she whispers.

“I know you don't,” I whisper back. “I don't hate you, either.”

• • •

Minutes later, I'm walking down the sidewalk toward the Ranger, rehearsing in my head how I'm going to act excited about the electric guitar. But it's not a guitar that's waiting for me. There, looking out of the passenger-side window with a huge smile on her face, is Licky, full of dopey happiness and hope.

I feel like my heart is going to bust wide open. Licky hasn't stopped licking me from the time I got in the truck until about five minutes ago. Now she's curled up asleep on the blanket on the floor, my bare feet resting on her softly breathing belly. The empty feeling is gone; Licky jumped right in and filled it up.

“When are we going to be there?” I ask.

“What're you, four?” my dad goes. “You asked me that three times already, and we've only been on the road twenty minutes. We should be there by nine thirty, ten. Hey, Gerri's making lasagna for us. You like lasagna?”

“I love lasagna,” I go. “Dad?”

“That's my name.”

“Tell me again.”

He sighs. “Man, you really are four.”

“Aw, come on.”

“Okay, okay. So you told me how much you loved this dog, right? And I said to myself, a boy needs a dog the way a boy needs his dad. That simple. I didn't know if you'd be comin' with me or not—this was Wednesday, remember, I hadn't even asked you yet—but one way or the other, I thought, ‘Even if I get into big you-know-what with your mom, I'm getting us that dog.' So me and Del and Del's wife, Margie, went out to the shelter on Thursday and got her.”

“And they had to be the ones to say they were adopting her, right?”

“Right. 'Cause, you know, I don't live here and they've got a fenced-in yard for their chickens and their dog Scooch.”

“Did Licky and Scooch get along okay?” I ask.

“Oh yeah. Like gangbusters.”

“Whatever that means.”

“Well, let's just say that after two days they were best buddies.”

“I hope Licky didn't feel sad leaving.”

“Come on, Skeezo. They're dogs.”

“I guess you're right.”

We've got the windows open, with the breeze coming in warm and all, and Licky's belly is rising and falling under my feet. If I don't think back to the last couple of hours before I left, I'd have to say I never felt so, like, content. But then there's this thing nagging at me, this thing I feel like I've got to tell my dad.

“Does Scooch have to stay out in the yard?” I ask. “Like Penny did?”

My dad shakes his head and glances over at me, like he maybe knows what I'm getting at. “He lives in the house with them, but they let him out. He likes to chase the chickens.”

“Will Licky live inside our house?”

“Oh, for sure.”

“Is it okay with Gerri?”

“Are you kidding me? Gerri's nuts about the idea. She loves dogs. She had a dog when I first met her, but he was old and sick and she had to, you know . . .”

We both let it sit there, the knowledge of what she had to do.

“Dad,” I go.

“Uh-huh?”

“When Penny ran away . . .”

“Yeah?”

“When she got out of her kennel . . . it was . . .”

I keep staring straight ahead as the road signs flash past, letting the rise and fall of Licky's breath hold me steady. “I know how she got out.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, it was . . . it was me. I let her loose.”

“What're you talking about, Skeezo? She got out in the middle of the night.”

“I know. I couldn't sleep. I was worried about her. I worried about her every night. But that night, I don't know what it was, maybe I heard there was a storm coming or something, but I couldn't get to sleep. So I came up with this plan. I was going to sneak her into the house. Every night. I'd wait until everybody fell asleep, then I'd go out and get her and bring her in. And then I'd
wake up first thing in the morning and sneak her back out.

“But it didn't work. Before I could get her leash on her, she took off. And we never saw her again.”

I say this last part in a voice just above a mumble.

He answers in a voice about as quiet as mine.

“That's not entirely true,” he says.

“Yeah, it is. I ought to know. I was the one who was there.”

“No, I mean the part about never seeing her again. Since you're coming clean with me, I owe it to you to come clean, too.”

With this, my dad pulls into a rest stop and cuts the engine. Licky wakes with a startled look, then seeing it's me, she licks my foot, lets out this snort, and goes back to sleep.

“Now listen, kid,” my dad says. “I hope you won't be mad at me about this.”

“Are you mad at me about letting her out?”

He shakes his head. “Hell, no. I don't blame you for that. You just wanted her inside the house
where she belonged. You couldn't help it that she bolted.”

“When she didn't come back, I was scared a car hit her or something.”

“I know, but remember I told you that that didn't happen. I told you back then, remember? That I
knew
it didn't happen. I said I looked everywhere for her and that if she'd got hit by a car or something else bad had happened, we would have heard. It's a small town, Skeezie, right?”

“Right, but—”

“But the truth is, I found her.”

My dad holds his eyes right on me. I don't know what to think. I'm doing a one-eighty from feeling content and happy to wanting to punch him right in his stupid face. How could he be telling me this seven years later?

“You found her?” I go. “You
found
her and you didn't tell me? You let me believe—”

“I
told
you I knew she was okay. I had to take her back to the pound, Skeezo.”

“Don't call me that!”

“Come on, look, don't make this any harder than it already is. You told me your secret, I'm telling you mine. Your mom and me, we had Jessie on the way and I wasn't making diddly-squat at my job—whatever job it was then, who remembers—and your mom was seriously pissed that I went and got you a dog.

“After I found her, I just couldn't bring her back home, not if I was going to try to make things good again. Her getting loose, it just about broke my heart, for both of us—you and me—because we loved her so much. But it wasn't right for me to put my love of that dog on a higher shelf than my love of your mom. I had to make things good again. I had to try.”

“So it's Mom's fault, is that what you're saying?”

“No. Man. Skeezie, it's nobody's fault. It's not your fault you let Penny out. It's not her fault she ran for the hills. It's not your mom's fault she couldn't handle having a dog with all else she had to deal with. And it's not my fault I was trying to be a grown-up and save my marriage.”

“Well, you screwed that one up anyways,” I say. “So what was the point?”

That punch I wanted to deliver? I just landed it.

My dad looks away and we sit there for a time, feeling the air between us grow thick.

Finally, my dad clears his throat and says, “How about cutting me some slack, huh? I'm trying. That's what this is all about. I got a good job, a good woman. After we get married, we're going to have a baby. I want you there with me, son. With us. I want you to be a big brother to whoever's comin' down the pike, you know? And meet my buddies and hang out, and be in the band. We're gonna have us some
fun.
Hey, wait'll you go fishing on this boat I was telling you about. It's a whole other thing from fishing back home. You're going to love it, I'm telling you.”

“Okay,” I mumble. “Whatever.”

He starts the Ranger up and we drive for a long time, the radio playing, the sun getting lower on the horizon. Every once in a while Licky shifts her weight under my feet and lets out these little happy, contented sounds.

“Did she ever find another home?” I ask at one point.

“Oh, yeah,” my dad says, knowing right away what I'm talking about. “I called to make sure. She was adopted the day after I dropped her off. They wouldn't tell me who, but they said it was a good home with lots of room for her to run around.”

“And a house where she could sleep inside at night?”

“I didn't ask, but yeah. I figure.”

I start to ask something else, but his hand darts to the radio and he pumps up the volume. “Check out this guitar riff,” he says. “It's a thing of beauty.”

My head is still full of what happened to Penny, full of what's happening to me, while his head is grooving to the music.

“Beautiful, right?” he calls out over the blasting music. “You're gonna play like that someday! We'll get you that Strat, and Gerri'll give you lessons. And what about this little brother or sister, huh?
Gerri's so psyched. I told her you're going to be an awesome big brother. Hey, she'll help you play guitar, you'll help her be a mom, right? Let's hope when the baby comes, it's a boy. These girls have got us outnumbered!”

That's when it all comes caving in on me. What am I doing in this truck? I don't want to be my dad's buddy or a member of his band. I don't want to help bring up his newest kid. I don't want to have
fun.
Well, I do want to have fun, but
my
fun, not his. I don't want to be the piece he slots into his life to make it perfect.

I want my dad, but not like this.

“I've got to go back,” I mumble.

“What'd you say?” he shouts.

I reach over and turn off the radio and say in a loud, clear voice, “I've got to go back.”

“You forget something?” he asks.

“No. Yes,” I say. “I forgot my whole life. I want to be back home where I belong.”

“We're halfway to Syracuse,” he goes. “Gerri's making lasagna.”

“Take me home,” I say. “Dad, please.”

“What about Licky? She's our dog, Skeezo.”

“I thought she was mine,” I say. “I thought you got her for me.”

“I did, but . . . for us. For you and Gerri and me, for our family.”

“I've already got a family,” I tell him. “I want you and Gerri in it, too, but right now I want to go back to Mom and the girls.”

“I'm going to have to take Licky with me,” he goes. “You know that, right? Your mom will never let you keep her.”

“Okay, all right, whatever. I'll see her when I come visit you and Gerri.”

He looks over at me. “You're serious about this, aren't you?”

I nod.

“Will you come visit? Will you swear?”

I nod again.

“Gerri's going to cry, you know. She's been looking forward to—”

“Dad, stop. Please.”

And so we turn around at the next exit and start the long trip back.

• • •

On the way we pull over for gas.

My dad tosses me his wallet. “I got a couple calls to make. Fill it up, son.”

I'm standing here at the pump, not caring whether I look cool or not, just staring at the picture I found behind his credit card, the one of him and me and Jessie and Megan. It must have been about a year before he took off. We're out at the lake, sunburned from a day of swimming. We all look happy, even my dad.

It's eleven o'clock, closing in on the end of the longest day of my life.

Mom and I are sitting out on the front steps of our house. Up in the sky the stars are putting on a show.

“I can't remember a night like this,” she says. “So black and the stars so bright. Of course, I'm usually in bed by now or still out at Stewart's.”

“I wish you didn't have to work that job,” I tell her. “I worry about you out there at night.”

“You do?” She reaches over and rests her hand on my knee. “That's nice to hear.”

“Maybe with me working, you could quit that job,” I say.

“Maybe I'll just look for something else. Maybe there's something I can do from home, so I don't have to be away so much.